“Dryden. Walter Dryden is my name. Yes, that’s the trouble.” “She won’t have you?” hazarded the reporter, wishing to be social in his turn. “Exactly.” “Mrs. Harrington would not the first time I asked her.” “I have offered myself to her six separate times, and she has thus far declined.” Harrington paused a moment. The temptation to reveal his own astuteness, and at the same time enhance the personal flavor which the dialogue had acquired, was not to be resisted. “May I venture to ask if she is the lady with whom you exchanged a few words this forenoon at the door of the church?” The young man turned his glance from the road toward his questioner by way of tribute to such acumen. “I see that nothing escapes your observation.” “It is my business to notice everything and to draw my own conclusions,” said the reporter modestly. “They are shrewdly correct in this case. Would you be surprised,” continued Dryden in a confidential tone, “if I were to inform you that I believe it lies in your power to procure me a home and happiness?” Harrington chuckled in his secret soul. He would dissemble. “How could that possibly be?” “I don’t mind telling you that the last time I offered myself the young lady appeared a trifle less obdurate. She shook her head, but I thought I observed signs of wavering--faint, yet appreciable. If now I could only put her under an obligation and thus convince her of my effectiveness, I am confident I could win her.” “Your effectiveness?” queried Harrington, to whom the interview was becoming more psychologically interesting every moment. “Yes, she considers me an unpractical person--not serious, you know. I know what you consider me,” he added with startling divergence--“a dude.” Harrington found this searchlight on his own previous thought disconcerting. “Well, aren’t you one?” he essayed boldly. Dryden pondered a moment. “I suppose so. I don’t wear reversible cuffs and I am disgustingly rich. I’ve shot tigers in India, lived in the Latin quarter, owned a steam yacht, climbed San Juan Hill--but I have not found a permanent niche. There are not places enough to go round for men with millions, and she calls me a rolling stone. Come, now, I’ll swap places with you. You shall own this motor and--and I’ll write the press notice on the Ward-Upton funeral.” Harrington stiffened instinctively. He did not believe that the amazing, splendid offer was genuine. But had he felt complete faith that the young man beside him was in earnest, he would have been proof against the lure of even a touring car, for he had been touched at his most sensitive point. His artistic capacity was assailed, and his was just the nature to take proper umbrage at the imputation. More; over, though this was a minor consideration, he resented slightly the allusion to reversible cuffs. Hence the answer sprang to his lips: “Can you not trust me to write the notice, Mr. Dryden?” “She would like me to write it.”